


Feast of All Souls

by williamshatspeare (thekasems)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Trials
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekasems/pseuds/williamshatspeare
Summary: Sometimes he caught himself drinking pot after pot of cheap motel room coffee. Thin and bitter and hot enough to burn just a little bit. He hurt himself doing it, once—grabbed the pot right out of the machine and guzzled nearly half of it in a frenzy before he felt the fire climbing up his throat and dropped the whole thing to the floor. The cheap plastic pot didn’t shatter, but the coffee jumped out and splattered the cheap carpeting. It hurt to swallow for days afterward, so Sam didn’t eat.





	Feast of All Souls

**Author's Note:**

> this story takes place in season 8 and in the canon of my own mind.

* * *

_All Souls’ Day commemorates the faithful departed._

_The Roman Catholic celebration is associated with the doctrine that the souls of the faithful who at death have not been cleansed from the temporal punishment due to venial sins and from attachment to mortal sins cannot immediately attain the beatific vision in heaven, and that they may be helped to do so by prayer and by the sacrifice of the Mass._

_In other words, when they died, they had not yet attained full sanctification and moral perfection, a requirement for entrance into Heaven. This sanctification is carried out posthumously in Purgatory._

_The official name of the celebration in the Roman Rite liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church is “The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed.”_

_Another popular name in English is_ **_Feast of All Souls._ **

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

ON NOVEMBER 2ND they were in Michigan. Dean had caught wind of a couple news reports about strange disappearances: campers and hikers who entered the Hiawatha National Forest and never came back out. Looks like a wendigo, he told Sam, and Sam nodded. Let’s check it out.

It takes about 10 hours to drive there; Sam dozes off at some point and wakes up to the sound of Dean banging his fist on the passenger-side of the Impala.

Sleeping beauty, let’s go! his brother says gruffly, the sound muffled by the window between them. Sam waves him away in disgust, and Dean laughs, shouldering his duffel bag and ambling toward the motel. After a few minutes, Sam follows him in, and when they get to their room they don’t even bother to turn the lights on—just collapse onto their beds and sleep.

They wake up, go out for breakfast, talk to some locals, read a lot of articles and leaf through a few books, and then they make a plan to camp out in the woods and hunt this damn thing.

Sam’s stomach growls loudly and he curses it silently. Hey, man, I offered you my bacon, Dean says—Told you those eggs weren’t enough.

He thinks about the last time he had felt truly full, then quietly puts that thought away.

We can hit that diner one more time if you want, get some real food before we have to live off granola for the next few days, his brother says with a smile.

Sam sniffs. No time. It’s almost dark out.

You just don’t wanna see me and that waitress flirting again.

 _Nobody_ wants to see that, Dean.

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes he caught himself drinking pot after pot of cheap motel room coffee. Thin and bitter and hot enough to burn just a little bit. He hurt himself doing it, once—grabbed the pot right out of the machine and guzzled nearly half of it in a frenzy before he felt the fire climbing up his throat and dropped the whole thing to the floor. The cheap plastic pot didn’t shatter, but the coffee jumped out and splattered the cheap carpeting. It hurt to swallow for days afterward, so Sam didn’t eat.

Coffee would give him a little shot of manic energy, but it was always accompanied by shaking hands and splitting headaches, and if he drank too much of it right before they hit the road, he’d get bitched out by Dean for needing a piss stop after 20 minutes. And anyway, it was just a Band-Aid, like switching from five packs of smokes a day to five packs of gum: it could trick his body for a little while, but it was a poor substitute for what he was really addicted to.

 

 

 

 

 

A hiker hails Sam as they’re setting up shop in the forest; he quickly throws a blanket over the flare guns.

“You better be careful,” the woman says as her (sister? friend? girlfriend?) scoffs. “Watch out for the Dogman.”

The Dogman? Sam inquires earnestly. What is that, some kind of local legend?

“’S no legend. I’ve seen it, and I know at least six other people who’ve seen it, too.”

“Oh, _shut_ up, Ellie. Sorry, dude, she’s just fucking with you,” says the other woman, pulling her away.

Ellie persists. “ _You_ shut up, Tanya. And you guys take care, okay? For real.”

Tanya succeeds in escorting Ellie down the hill toward the stream, though they continue to bicker all the way down.

Leaves rustling behind him cause Sam to jump, but it’s just Dean, coming back to camp with his knife in hand.

Carved a couple Anasazi symbols into some trees, his brother says, then jerks his head in the direction of the girls—Jehovah’s Witnesses?

Sam smirks. She told me to watch out for the Dogman. Said she’s seen it, and so have half a dozen of her friends, although the one she’s with didn't seem too convinced.

The hell is a Dogman?

I don’t know. Could just be a hoax.

Or could be something else.

Sam nods, and suddenly all the quiet noises of the forest seem to get just a little bit louder and closer.

Well, Dean says as he snatches away the blanket, whatever it is, I hope it burns.

 

 

 

 

 

Four gallons of demon blood. A normal person couldn’t keep down more than a gallon of food or water at a time, but no part of Sam, inside or out, was normal. Rather than stretch his stomach till it burst, the blood seemed to fill a thousand cracks in him, like rain falling on a parched desert floor. It didn’t feel heavy. No, he felt lighter than air, and stronger than a hurricane; and for the first time in his life, he felt whole.

That was the thing he truly craved: not the blood itself, but that sense of unfathomable fullness. He broke down and chased after it sometimes by drinking or by eating, frantically. But it didn't work the same way and his stomach swelled; like a lead weight inside him, dragging him down—down——deep down———

Throwing up could avert that crisis, but afterward he felt even more empty, and even more weak. Like a thing you would step on and not even notice. Sam lived with that feeling almost all of the time, now.

 

 

 

 

 

You know what the date is, right?

Dean looks up from his cards.

November 2nd.

Dean’s eyes lower again and he pretends to consider his next move. Yeah, I know.

Sam nods. He doesn’t say anything else—he never does, but he always wants to make sure that they don’t forget. Two anniversaries, like a birthday on Christmas, except all the gifts are crap.

Dean discards; Sam picks it up and lays down his hand—Gin.

Motherfu—!

Sam's laughter drowns out the rest of the word.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Epigraph source](https://www.catholic.org/saints/allsouls/): Nov. 2nd, All Souls' Day


End file.
